


Who Art in Heaven

by Sue_Snell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cunnilingus, Daddy Issues, Dominance, F/M, Handcuffs, Lap Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 12:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7050631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sue_Snell/pseuds/Sue_Snell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SPN kinkmeme fill. Prompt: "Basically Claire works through her complicated feelings for her father by sexually dominating the angel who took him away from her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Art in Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt over at the SPN kinkmeme: http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/110195.html?thread=41263731#t41263731
> 
> First time using Ao3 (I couldn't bear the thought of doing the anon LJ comment thing with all these damn italics to em-tag.) so apologies in advance if I mess up the format or something.

He was already kneeling on the floor when she entered the room.

_When she was little every night he’d kneel beside her bed and pat the floor beside him until she joined him. Then they’d fold their hands, bow their heads, close their eyes, and say The Lord’s Prayer together: “Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name…” He was delighted when she asked him how God could be her Father and her father’s Father at the same time, because that meant she was paying attention to the words._

His hands were cuffed behind his back— _really_ cuffed: He’d found a warded pair in the creepy dungeon section of Sam and Dean’s bunker. Before cuffing himself he’d put the key in the center of an ashtray on the nightstand, then lit a little ring of holy fire around it so he couldn’t get it back. Overkill, maybe, but it was his own idea and she appreciated the gesture, the extra effort to put himself completely at her mercy.

He wasn’t allowed to talk until they were done, and she trusted him to hold to that. In the early stages of planning she considered making him gag himself but ultimately decided against it. It’d mean more complicated rules about how he’d let her know if he changed his mind. This way kept it simple: _Any_ word was the safeword. Besides, she had plans for that mouth, and a gag would just get in the way.

He was _almost_ completely naked. She’d told him to leave the tie on. Of course it was the same tie she’d told him looked good on him that one time. It _did_ look good on him. The color brought out his eyes.

_She’d always had a thing for guys with blue eyes, but didn’t realize why until fairly recently, while she was living with Randy. One night he was sharing a bottle of cheap booze with her and Dustin. (Randy was always great about sharing when they’d all had a rough week.) The three of them were huddled at the tiny kitchen table, and she was feeling warm and sleepy and chatty and maybe a little horny, and she told him he had really pretty eyes. Dustin giggled and mumbled “daddy issues” louder than he probably realized and she kicked him under the table and told him to shut up. In her head she searched for something to prove Dustin wrong, but she couldn’t find it, and suddenly she was terrified Randy would be weirded out. (Only looking back months later did she see how messed up it was that she was way more scared of him liking her less for it than she was of him taking advantage of it.) Luckily Randy just smiled, patted her knee, and said “Don’t stay up too late, okay kids?” before heading to bed himself._

_Her head was achingly full of memories she hadn’t visited in a while by the time she went to bed and she wound up crying herself to sleep that night. She didn’t pray before bed anymore, but on bad nights like this sometimes the words “Our Father, Who art in Heaven” would creep into her mind like some kind of stupid reflex. She’d given up on talking to Him a long time ago. From the sound of things He wasn’t even in Heaven anymore. Almost funny to think her actual father probably was in Heaven by now, but she doubted he could hear her either._

She felt like she was in a trance as she closed the motel room door behind her, dropped her purse on the floor, and reached for the button on her jeans. This was her last chance to change _her_ mind. The second she touched him she’d no longer be able to look back and say she thought about it but never went through with it, and part of her really didn’t want to give that up. This was the kind of thing you were supposed to repress or talk through with a therapist or simulate with someone you found on Craigslist. You weren’t supposed to actually _do_ it.

She kicked her shoes, jeans, and panties into a wadded pile on the floor, and they landed close to where _his_ clothes were folded neatly. Except for the coat. That he’d draped over a chair. She wondered what happened to the old one, the one her dad used to wear on rainy days. She doubted he cared, but that one looked better on him than this one.

The air in the room was cool, and she didn’t feel like taking the rest of her clothes off, but that was fine, right? This would work. She walked slowly toward him and he watched her approach. He didn’t look scared or excited or sad or happy or _anything_ except… alert? Attentive?

“Ready?” she asked.

He nodded.

Good.

As she leaned down and reached for his tie, she felt a wild flutter in her stomach. It was a cold, hard, sick flutter, but not exactly _bad_. Like how riding a roller coaster scares you, but in a good way. She wrapped her hand around the knot at his throat and clenched her fist around it so the loop about his neck would tighten ever so slightly. She could feel his pulse thrumming under his warm skin, much faster than she would’ve guessed by just looking at him. So he _was_ feeling… something. He’d speak up if it was something bad, right?

She sidled toward the edge of the bed, tugging on his tie to keep him with her. He clumsily shuffled around on his knees to keep facing her and before long she’d arranged them so she was sitting on the bed and he was kneeling between her legs.

_At first after he disappeared she’d still kneel beside her bed and pray every night, sometimes just in her head, but sometimes out loud just in case it helped. After finishing the Lord’s Prayer with her first “amen” she’d whisper, “Dear Father, please bring back Daddy. Amen. Dear Father, please bring back Jimmy. Amen.” The last thing he’d told her was he was not her father, but that didn’t feel like the truth. Best to cover both bases. A year later “Dear Father” had turned to “Dear Castiel” but the results weren’t much better. Even so, she_ felt _better. She liked to that think if Castiel could hear her her dad could hear her too, that she could still talk to him even if he couldn’t talk to her right now. It was comforting, how even though she’d watched him take a bullet, even though she might never see him again, she didn’t have to think of him as…_

She tugged him toward her to point him in the right direction before letting go of the tie, figuring he’d get the idea. She wasn’t in the mood for foreplay. They’d been arranging this for weeks, over dozens of texts and emails. (She never could’ve brought herself to tell him what she needed in a face-to-face conversation. Even hearing his voice on the phone would’ve been too much.) Waiting all that time had been more than enough buildup already.

He had a bit of stubble, and it rubbed against her thighs as he leaned in, his face jostling roughly against her as he struggled to find his balance without being able to use his hands to steady himself.

_His face was always a little scratchy when he tucked her in and kissed her goodnight after praying. Like sandpaper, or a cat’s tongue. Sometimes it kind of tickled and she’d let out a squeal of a giggle and he’d grin and shush her and tell her to settle down only to go in for a bonus kiss to see if he could get her to giggle again._

She spread her legs farther apart and inched closer to the edge of the bed to give him better access. It took him a few more seconds to steady himself, but then his tongue hesitantly pressed between her folds and the dull heat that’d pooled there the moment she walked in finally kindled into something brighter, more insistent. She grabbed a fistful of his hair to hold him in place with one hand and used her other hand to steady herself on the bed.

His tongue washed over her in even, rhythmic strokes, applying a little more pressure each time until she was squirming with every stroke. Going in she hadn’t expected him to be, well, _good_ at this kind of thing (She doubted he had much experience. Hoped so, anyway.) but turned out he was decent. Nice.

She glanced down to find his eyes curiously turned up to her, eyebrows quirked in a wordless question. Well, if she was right about how much experience he had he might need some encouragement…

“Yeah,” she said breathlessly, “Yes. That’s right.” No need to be _too_ nice about it though… Pitching her voice lower (more commanding, she hoped) she added, “Keep going.”

His head bobbed slightly in affirmation and his eyes turned downward, as if to better focus on the task at hand. Her grip tightened on his hair as his rhythm began to pick up speed, and the pull drew a noise from him, some little grunt or moan of pain she barely heard but definitely _felt_ down below.

“Mmm,” she murmured without meaning to, “Yeah, _God_ yes…”

_There was that time he_ was _God for a couple of months. Nobody talked about it anymore, except to say it was just some stupidly-elaborate Internet thing like Slenderman that only got so big because a couple of news stations were dumb enough to pick it up. She might think so too if it’d been any face but his. It’d been long enough by then that she’d started to forget what he looked like, and seeing him was almost like catching sight of an oddly familiar stranger, trying to remember where you’ve seen them before. She’d watch whatever clips of him she could find online over and over, staring at his face._

Dear God… _she’d sometimes absent-mindedly think when she was falling asleep, but she never actually asked for anything. It never worked before, after all. Soon enough his time as “God” ended as inexplicably as it started. She began to doubt he’d ever even heard her praying anyway, even before._

Was it her imagination, or did he falter when she said that? Of course, apparently when angels prayed ( _Did_ angels pray?) they meant “our Father” in a more literal sense. She almost laughed at the thought as he recovered his rhythm and her father’s tongue laved at her once more. _Gee, sorry, Cas. Didn’t mean to make it_ weird _for you…_

Weird or not, he was doing a good job; she was getting close already. Which was good, yeah, but… no. Not yet. Not so fast.

“Okay, okay…” she whispered, yanking his head back, “That’s good. Come on.” She let go of his hair and slid off the bed, glancing around the room. She’d thought through where she wanted to start and where she wanted to finish, and… Her gaze landed on a simple padded dining chair near the TV. That’d work. She looked back to Castiel, who’d remained kneeling at her feet. She took hold of his tie again and pulled up until he shakily got his feet under him, and then, on a whim, pulled him in for a kiss, savoring the taste of herself on his lips.

The position had to be uncomfortable as hell for him—she’d brought him in before he got the chance to stand all the way up and now he was stuck in an awkward crouch, bent to her height, wobbling a bit to keep his balance—but he dutifully opened his mouth to the kiss without complaint. Claire hadn’t planned on kissing him at all—it seemed like the wrong kind of personal for tonight—and yet she found herself lingering here, actually enjoying the sensation of exploring his mouth with her tongue. She absent-mindedly wrapped his tie around her hand, tightened her hold on him. As she pressed closer she could feel his pulse racing again. Was he…? She pulled back at last and looked down. Somehow he’d made it to half-mast without her noticing. She wondered if he’d be taking himself the rest of the way up right now if he could use his hands and the thought set her own heart to pounding.

_The night he’d come back after being missing for a year she’d tried to be normal and nice and act like nothing was different, terrified that if she did something wrong he’d get upset and leave again. Most of what happened between him turning up on their doorstep and the demon attack was a blur in her mind now, but she retained a crystal clear snapshot of sitting at the dinner table, her heart pounding, forcing herself to smile because he was crying but he said it was because he was happy but he also hadn’t wanted to say grace and she had no idea what that meant but if she asked that might upset him and she needed to know what he meant when he said he wasn’t her father but she didn’t dare ask that either…_

She led him over to the chair and sat him down, helping him put his arms behind the back so he wouldn’t be smushed against them. The seat must’ve been lower than he expected; he dropped into it with a jolt, his eyes widening momentarily. He recovered quickly though, and she watched his muscles visibly tense as he settled in: He hooked his ankles on the legs of the chair and braced his arms against the back, anchoring himself in preparation for what he knew would come next.

She stood over him as he situated himself, her eyes trailing from his parted lips past his pointed nipples to the growing hardness between his legs. Either he actually wanted this or he was unbelievably good at faking it. Up until now she’d tried not to think too hard about how much he wanted to do this (how much he felt like he had to) but seeing him like this felt… good. Like there was something here beyond his guilt and her grief and this… _thing_ she’d been aching to get out of her system for far too long. Like there was something here that would still be there when they were done, and she wouldn’t have to walk away feeling like she’d used him up and he’d never want to see her again.

_When he’d come to get her out of the home he’d repeated those words: “I am not your father.” She’d known already. The second they told her her father had come she’d known it must really be Castiel, and yet hearing him say it still somehow hurt her. Every time she looked at him was a reminder she’d never see her father again. He had to know that, and yet he couldn’t seem to understand why she didn’t want to see him._

He seemed ready now, so she straddled the chair and lowered herself into his lap, one hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Her other hand reached down to check exactly how ready he was, and he gave a soft gasp at her touch. _Really_ ready. Cool. She wrapped her hand around him and guided him in. She’d decided not to bother with a condom; she was on the pill now and _pretty_ sure she didn’t have to worry about catching anything from him.

It took her a few seconds to adjust to the feeling. This wasn’t her first rodeo, but she hadn’t been on the pill very long and this _was_ her first time going natural. (Another thought that almost made her laugh: Good thing she made it special, right?) Once she got settled in and started moving, she had to admit: It wasn’t just a matter of guys being dicks about it, it really did feel better this way. If his heavy breathing and the way he bit his lip was any indication, Cas likely agreed. There was a faint _clink_ and she realized he’d pulled against the cuffs for some reason, forgotten and tried to touch or reach for something. She wondered what.

She set a brisk pace and clung tightly to his shoulders as she sought out _just_ the right angle. She was still plenty slick from what he’d done with his tongue, so the ride was nice and smooth, and before long she found what she was looking for. She gasped as he hit that perfect spot inside her again and again, and she trailed one hand down to rub herself in time with her bouncing. Before long she could feel herself nearing the edge again, a great tidal wave just about to crest…

Castiel’s body was rigid, vein-poppingly tense with the effort of holding still so Claire wouldn’t lose her perfect angle. His breathing was ragged and his neck was bent forward, as if he couldn’t afford to waste extra effort supporting the weight of his own head. Claire was glad she didn’t even have to tell him to hold still for him to get it, glad and surprised, though she supposed she shouldn’t be. It made sense, that he was so determined to do this right for her.

_It’d messed her up when he’d told her he’d heard her pray without meaning to, her “informal” prayer. How many other times had he heard her when she didn’t even know she was praying? And how come he never turned up for any of those? Nevermind all the time she’d spent wondering the same about the praying she’d done on purpose… In the interest of getting to sleep at night she eventually concluded that it must be a hearing vs. listening thing. Angels could hear every prayer said by every human in the world all at once, so sure, he could hear her anytime, but she couldn’t register in all that noise unless he was specifically listening for her. He must’ve done it a lot at first since he promised her dad he’d make sure she and her mom were okay and used to hold to that. And he was probably listening for her that day because Dean would’ve told him about her siccing that crazy couple on him._

_It made as much sense as anything else in her life, assuming her prayers just got lost in all the chatter because he had more important things to worry about, that he used to listen for her all the time before her dad went to Heaven, and now he only listened for her when he had a reason. (He didn’t have a reason right now, when he knew she could just text him instead. Would he ever have a reason again?) It made sense, and yet…_

_Dear Castiel,_ she thought, before she could stop herself ( _“Dear Father…” “Dear God…”_ the echoes sounded in her mind), _Do you still listen for my prayers?_

His head lifted and leaned back so his eyes could meet hers. Her own eyes watered. She might’ve tried to stop right there if she hadn’t already hit the point of no return.

_Amen._

She let her head fall against his collarbone as the wave washed over her, and as she began to catch her breath she felt a strangled whimper churning in his throat. He’d promised not to come until she told him to (also his own idea) but keeping that promise was obviously turning into a struggle.

“Go ahead,” she muttered into his sweat-sticky skin, but he’d already reigned it in, so nothing happened. Not cool.

She sat up and grabbed his shoulders roughly, digging her nails in.

“I _said_ , do it. _Now._ ” She punctuated the command with a roll of her hips and this time he obeyed with a gasp, reflexively thrusting up as he spurted into her, hot and thick. She was still throbbing down there, raw and sensitive, and the sensation was so overwhelming she shuddered.

_When he’d entered her body it felt like white hot light exploding within her, threatening to split her open, and though she knew there was no other way to save her parents or even herself she panicked and asked him—inside her mind, the same place he’d spoken to her to get her permission—if it was too late to say no. He didn’t answer._

His head snapped up and she saw his worried frown, the apologetic glint in his eyes. She shook her head. Fine, maybe it kind of hurt, but it kind of felt good too, and he’d followed the rules and not let it out before she said he could. Weirdly enough, that mattered to her. That he’d stuck to the rules, even the dumb ones.

He relaxed when he saw her smile.

She noticed she still had a death grip on his shoulders and loosened up, then nudged him toward her. He gratefully took the cue and leaned forward, resting his head on her shoulder with a sigh. She leaned forward too, found the sweet spot where they could support each other’s weight and settled into it, wrapping her arms around him. Her cheek pressed against his hair and a faint-yet-sharp scent tickled her nostrils.

_He used this special, expensive, really strong dandruff shampoo that left a cloying chemical smell wafting out of her parents’ bathroom every morning. After not smelling it for months after he disappeared she stole the bottle and used it herself one morning. Her mom must’ve stolen it back and thrown it out while she was at school because the next morning it was gone, and she never smelled it again._

It took less than a minute for the position to grow uncomfortable and soon she had to gently push him back and climb off of him, shivering at the feeling of everything leaking out when she stood.

First things first. She walked over to the nightstand and snatched the handcuff key out of the flaming ashtray as quick as she could, flinching at the split-second of heat licking her skin. She turned back to him. He inched forward in his seat a bit but didn’t get up, instead looking up to her questioningly. She nodded. He stood and turned his back to her so she could free him, and she did.

She’d expected him to get dressed first thing after she let him go, but to her surprise he just turned around and sat back down in the chair. It felt weird, all of a sudden, to be standing so close, looming over him even though they were done with all that now.

“Um,” she said, “You okay?”

He gazed up at her thoughtfully.

“Yes,” he said, and it felt like the truth. That was a relief.

All of a sudden his hand was on her face. He must have reached up so fast that she blinked and missed it. She reflexively flinched, but didn’t actually mind the warm touch. His thumb swiped gently across her cheek and only then did she notice the tears there.

“Are you?” he asked.

_Their church held a funeral for him, after he’d been gone long enough. She had to go, but they couldn’t make her cry. She knew he wasn’t dead. It was stupid to make her come and it was stupid to try to force her to grieve, but there was no point telling them that. She spent the whole service praying to him (She started with “Dear Castiel” but really she was only telling him things to pass on to her dad.) about how stupid it all was, gave him a play-by-play of the sappy sermon and mushy hymns and all the crying everybody else was doing when they didn’t know, didn’t have a damn clue about what really happened to her father. It was one of the last times she remembered praying to Castiel. It wasn’t that she decided to stop after that. She never made a conscious decision to stop. She just… slowed down. She couldn’t even remember her real last “Dear Castiel…”_

She stared down at him, taking in the warded cuffs dangling loosely from one wrist, the deep lines of worry in his forehead. The tie that brought out the blue in his eyes.

“Yeah,” she said, and it felt like the truth.

_Amen_.


End file.
